


Red

by QuillFeathers



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I had to write a hug, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by Art, M/M, Vignette, just look at the art seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 09:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillFeathers/pseuds/QuillFeathers
Summary: The room is a battlefield—bathed in all the colors of blood.--Sylvain has been looking worse for wear since they’d come back with the Lance of Ruin, so when he doesn’t show for dinner one day Felix decides to check on him.





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> [This art by @djuraaah](https://twitter.com/djuraaah/status/1180987707926831104?s=20)...it seriously ripped out my heart and I thought about it for 24hrs and got home from work and immediately started typing. Said art linked with permission.

Felix is not immune to emotion, and he's actually worried.

Ever since they had returned with the Lance of Ruin Sylvain's smile had been dripping with even more falsehood than usual. A flimsy bandage over a gaping new wound; or rather an old festering one, infectious words following the Gautier heir around the academy everywhere.

_Lucky._

_Honored._

_Gifted._

The Lance of Ruin was a fear-striking, awe-inspiring, powerful weapon. Of course Sylvain had accepted it from the Margrave, no matter how much it weighed him down. No matter how often Miklan's shadow loomed behind him. Another link in the shackles of his crest and bloodline.

But today no one had seen Sylvain at supper, and he was not one to skip meals like he did training. Meals provided the better opportunity to flirt after all, and if Sylvain wasn't even feeling up to that, well...

Both Felix and Ingrid had done the whole lock your feelings away and yourself in your room thing when Glenn died, and now Felix watched Dimitri do something similar in the present on a daily basis. He wasn't about to let another friend follow the same path. Turns out it wasn't one that did much good.

Twilight is seeping through the windows when he knocks on the door to Sylvain's room. There's no answer, not a sound form the other side, but the handle turns in Felix's hand so he lets himself in.

The cavalier sits against the side of the bed, his shoulders slumped and head bowed.

The room is a battlefield—bathed in all the colors of blood.

The Lance of Ruin lays on the bed, the stone at its center still somehow winking maroon even in shadow. Dark mahogany wine is staining (and surely ruining) the rug, the glinting glass of the shattered bottle a broken weapon. Pages torn from journals and books are strewn about like chipped armor ripped from flesh. And Sylvain's head glows like fire in the fading light, the deathly white of his knuckles digging into his hair a stark contrast against all the ignited strands beneath them: copper to rust.

Real molten drops of crimson glint on the floor. Fresh scarlet is smeared on a knife and sliced into Sylvain's wrists—passes at an enemy etched into his own skin.

“You can't cut it out,” slips muttered past Felix's lips, but he regrets the cruel and obvious words immediately. He and Sylvain had very different views about their futures and the paths they were to walk, but that had never stopped them from supporting each other.

Sylvain doesn't look up at him, only acknowledging his voice with a shake of his head and a further tightening of the fingers at his scalp.

Paper crunches under Felix's boots as he moves to stand at the redhead's feet, hands working at the buttons on his vest and one boot stepping on the edge of the bloodied knife to kick it backwards and away towards the door. Whether out of drunkenness or exhaustion or dejection Sylvain still doesn't react further, but that's fine with Felix. He's no good at saying what people want or need to hear like Sylvain is. It's a giant cliché that they compliment each other like that: one of them a man of action and the other silver-tongued.

Sylvain flinches at the press of fabric to his bloodied wrist, his elbow knocking an empty bottle of wine over. The thud as it hits the ground is the only sound in the room as Felix kneels between his knees. Sylvain silently accommodates space for him, silently unclenches the fingers of one hand in his hair when Felix slides his own under it. The crescent imprints of nails are visible on his palm as they’re both lifted away to hang loosely entangled, but of course his grip is gentle now.

Typical Sylvain. Smile to the world and offer it everything while simultaneously being on the verge of bleeding out.

When he's sure there won't be any fresh blood spilled Felix tosses the vest away, shifting closer to pull the cavalier to him with an arm slipped tightly around his back.

Felix does not give hugs, but how else are you supposed to stop bleeding but with direct pressure to the wound? Can't cut off blood supply to the heart with a tourniquet. Can't raise the limb above it if everything—your whole being—is bleeding.

Sylvain turns his head into Felix's neck, his first audible noise a shuddering inhale.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still shook.
> 
> I caved and am on Twitter to indulge in all the FE3H fandom. [@o3QuillFeathers](https://twitter.com/o3QuillFeathers)


End file.
